I still don’t know how I’m supposed to convince Tripp to add a few benefits to this friendship. I was almost certain there was something there—an attraction, a current of tension crackling through every interaction since I’ve been back. I just didn’t know how to take all that charged energy and give it life.
I had no plan. And I absolutely hate not having a plan.
I ring the doorbell and let out a shaky exhale, trying to dispel the anxiety winding its way through me. I shouldn’t be nervous. Tripp and I have known each other for most of our lives.
He might tease, but he would never openly mock me for asking for something I want. He’s only ever been protective and caring with me.
When he still hasn’t answered, I pound on the door, wondering if he’s still in the shower and didn’t hear me. My lower back aches, my thighs are sore, and I would love nothing more than to sink into that hot tub and not get out until morning.
Tired of waiting, I push open the large wooden door. Thank God it's not locked. I desperately need to sit somewhere that isn’t a damn saddle.
My heart lifts when the door opens into a huge foyer with high ceilings that span across the first floor. I gaze around the open living room, my breath catching in my throat as I take it all in.
Wood paneling gives the space a honeyed glow you never get from the sterile white and gray of city apartments. It feels lived-in and inviting, a stark contrast to the cold minimalism of the place I used to share with Beau.
The kitchen opens into the living room, separated by a massive island topped with tan marble. Rich wood cabinetry gives the space a cozy, grounded warmth. It looks like something straight out ofYellowstone.I’m rendered speechless.
This wasn’t what I’d expected from Tripp. I’d imagined a typical bachelor pad—something small and cluttered, maybe with dingy carpet and peeling paint. Not an expanse of pristine wood and floor-to-ceiling windows framing the rolling sandhills like a goddamn painting.
Through the glass, I finally spot him—shirtless on the deck. The sinewy muscles on his back flex as he removes the cover from the hot tub. Dark tattoos snake across his sun-kissed skin, and I’m suddenly struckwith the urge to trace every line with my fingertips, to memorize every mark that’s been inked onto his skin.
I sink onto a stool at the kitchen island, watching him, totally unashamed. It’s been over a decade since I’ve been lucky enough to see this man without a shirt. And damn—these years have been kind to Tripp Matthews. He’s rugged and cut in all the right places, and when he turns around and spots me through the glass, his surprise is plain.
He slides the door open. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I hope you don’t mind—I let myself in when you didn’t answer the door.”
“Mi casa es su casa,” he says with a grin.
I glance around the space again. “It’s beautiful.”
“You like it?” Tripp asks, a cocky grin making his dimples pop.
“What’s not to like?”
He shrugs. “I wanted to build something that felt like home, that felt likeme. And home will always be the sandhills.” He gestures out of the wall of windows toward the view.
“Well, you nailed it. It’s totally you.”
His cheeks go a faint shade of pink, and he clears his throat. “Is frozen pizza okay? I’m not much of a cook.”
“That’s perfect,” I reassure him. “I’m the one barging in to use your hot tub, remember?”
He snorts. “You can come sit in the hot tub any time you want, Quinnie. I’m sure the view will be payment enough.” He winks at me.
Heat creeps into my cheeks, and that electric crackle of energy tingles up my spine. I know I shouldn’t take his flirting too seriously. I don’t call the man Casanova for nothing, but I can feel the weight of his stare. And God help me, I want his eyes on me tonight. I want him close enough to touch, to ease this knot of tension tightening low in my stomach.
“You’re coming in the hot tub with me, right?”
His gaze sweeps over me, lingering a beat too long at the hem of my T-shirt dress where it ends, high on my thigh. Then he clears his throat and shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Might catch the end of the game,” he says, reluctance clear in his voice.
Disappointment twists in my chest, and my shoulders fall.
He groans. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look at me all wounded—like you care whether or not I’m out there with you.”
